


Not a Hero, No

by KinshinKrow



Category: Sherlock (TV), Star Trek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angry John Watson, Definitely slightly coerced John, Hurt John Watson, John Watson's emotional rollercoster, M/M, Mycroft rolls his eyes a lot but only on the inside, No scientific accuracy whatsoever, Possessive Sherlock, Possibly non-con John, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Stoic Sebastian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-03-05 15:57:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13391223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KinshinKrow/pseuds/KinshinKrow
Summary: Sherlock fell. In his place rose one Khan Noonien Singh. The conqueror.Khan had one condition. He would take his crew, and leave earth peacefully, in exchange for one thing. John Hamish Watson.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [It's Been Far Too Long](https://archiveofourown.org/works/975341) by [WickedSweetSalt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedSweetSalt/pseuds/WickedSweetSalt). 



> First chapter of first ever work. Comments and constructive criticism welcome. Inspired by It's Been Far Too Long by WickedSweetSalt who was wonderful enough to let me steal her idea. 
> 
> Unbeta'd, un-Britpicked, largely unedited, Written for decompression. Subject to Change. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing and no-one. I have no idea what I'm doing. Please send help.

* * *

> “No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.”  
>  “Alright.”  
>  “Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?”  
>  “Do what?”  
>  “This phone call, it’s… it’s my note. That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.”  
>  “Leave a note when?”  
>  “Goodbye, John.”  
>  “No. Don’t—“

Then, it was just ringing silence, and a mangled body on the concrete. John couldn’t process it, couldn’t function, couldn’t move or fucking _breathe_. Sherlock was gone. Sherlock was dead.

And then, all John could do was stand at a gravestone, and pray. Pray that it wasn’t real, that it wasn’t true, that Sherlock, beautiful, mad, amazing, brilliant Sherlock, wasn’t dead. Praying for a miracle, for one last miracle. For the man he owed so much of himself to, to please, please stop this and not be dead.

As it turns out, he got his wish.  
Only, it wasn’t exactly Sherlock he got back.

Four years after the fall, after Sherlock’s fall, the world looked a little different. A new power had risen, and through bloody, terrifying wars, waged with technology even the Americans couldn’t match, Britain had risen at the head of a united Afro-European bloc that extended all the way into Russia, and parts of China and Africa. People whispered a name in fear, and awe, and terror. _Khan_. A vicious, blood thirsty monster to some. A brutal dictator to others. And yet to others, a brilliant, charismatic leader who brought prosperity and wealth to nations in exchange for their freedom. Yet he had no face that was known. No voice that was heard. A man shrouded in mystery. A man, if rumours were to be believed, who was more than a man. Or less.

John didn’t care who he was. John didn’t care about much of anything after Sherlock’s fall. His world had gone grey and silent, and while colours eventually returned, as they do when grief meets the inexorable passage of time, they were muted, and sounds still came from a long way away. He could not retreat into his mourning forever after all. Not since Mycroft had sent him to America, where he joined the resistance. John was an army doctor, who had once again found a war.

The resistance, if you could call it that, as though it was stopping, rather than just delaying, Khan’s entrance into the States. The President was a gibbering idiot, elected before Americans remembered the need for a strong leader in times of uncertainty, and he was negotiating the American surrender, in the face of the might of half the world, made of countries who had remembered, under Khan, that they had been superpowers in the past. The American people were not so willing to surrender their own superpower status yet, nor submit to foreign rule. And they were quickly becoming a haven for refugees fleeing Khan’s expansion, welcoming allies in what they saw as the fight for their freedom, and as Khan’s power grew, for their lives.


	2. Chapter 2

John sighed wearily, rubbing exhaustion off a dusty face with an equally dusty hand. He was tired of this, being constantly on edge, treating the sick and the wounded at the clinic during the day, and in the tiny empty apartment next to his after working hours. A tap on his office door had him looking up to see a head poking in through the crack. A pretty brunette, Laura, who worked at reception in the clinic during the day, and assisted him during his after hour ‘consultations’ smiled at him sympathetically. “No luck then?” she asked. John shook his head. There was nothing in the old archives that could tell him anything new about the tunnel systems that ran through the city. Tunnels they needed if they were going to move anything in significant numbers without authorities noticing. “Nothing. Everything I’ve found is public record. Khan’s men would find us in a heartbeat. I don’t know how many are leaving with us in any case. The President hasn’t issued an official statement.” Laura shook her head in disgust. “They’re keeping it quiet until the terms of the surrender are finalised. And Sebastian wants to move now. He’s gotten word from Mycroft. Khan is with him now, and it doesn’t look like we can count on him anymore. Mycroft runs the British government but right now, it looks like Khan is running him.”  
“Yes, well. If Khan is what we think he is, he’s not going to wait for the President for very much longer. We may end up in an invasion situation, and we can’t stand against Khan’s forces. He’ll obliterate everything. We may have to accept the surrender. There’s nowhere left to go.”  
“There’s people in Columbia still sympathetic to us. The South Americans haven’t surrendered. And there’s real fighting in parts of Russia still. Not everyone in Khan’s confederation is happy to be there. We could rally them…”  
“Under who? We have no leaders. Sebastian won’t do it. He can’t. Too many people still don’t trust him for Moriarty. And there hasn’t been anyone else I’ve heard of.”  
“That’s because the war hasn’t really started yet. South America is going to be the last real stand. Refugees are pouring in from other countries. If we move south, establish strongholds in whatever cities will have us, we could hold them off. We have allies. Or people who will be allies when the time is right. There are cities in some of the states we could use.”  
“Laura, I want to fight as much as you do. I just don’t see how we can win against Khan. I’ve never seen weapons like the ones he uses. People who stand against him are… are vapourised. All that’s left is a fine red mist and some clothes. Their organs vibrate out of their bodies. We don’t have any weapons that could stand against something like that. Or anything that could counter that attack. We need a plan if we’re going to fight.”  
“John… I know how much you need to control things. How desperately you need to control every variable. I understand that it’s because of... because of Sherlock. But –“  
“Laura. If we try to fight without preparation, children are going to die. Children. These people who are coming here, they’re not soldiers. They can’t fight. They’ll all die.”  
“You could help them. You could train them. You and Sebastian. He has military experience. You and the other soldiers, the others with training – there will be others.”  
“Others can train them yes, if we can find people who can be trained. I can’t train them Laura. I’m just a doctor.”  
“You’re an army doctor John. You went to war.”  
John had no real answer to that. He had no real arguments for himself. He knew he could help train fighters for the resistance, for the war they could see coming. He knew he missed the war. He knew all these things. But he didn’t think he could face the idea of losing more people. He was part of the resistance yes, but only really in the sense that he patched up people, and was privy to information because of his relationship to Mycroft and Sebastian. He had gone to war with Sherlock, and lost. And now Sherlock was gone. He looked at Laura, with her bright, wide brown eyes and the slight tremble of fear behind the optimism and idealism in her face, and thought about how young she really was. How much she believed in the essential goodness of their cause. Belief for the sake of belief would get her killed, he thought bitterly. But barely a quarter of her life gone, and she was braver than he was now, now that he was older, with sad, tired blue eyes in a care-worn face, weathered by the mid-western sun and grief he still carried. He was only in his mid-forties at this point, but he felt so much older. He knew what he had to do though. There was no way he could do anything but fight. And use any and every trick he learned, in the army and from Sherlock, to win. Sherlock would have been disappointed in him for anything else. He sighed deeply, and with reluctance. “I’ll call James. He might be willing to help.”

Later that day, after the time difference made it more reasonable, John called James, trepidation filling him as he listened to the ringing tone.  
“Hello?”  
“Hi James. It’s John. John Watson.”  
John could hear the warmth come into James’ voice. “John. It’s good to hear from you. I heard you’re in America now. How are you?”  
“I’m alright James. Actually, I could use your help.”  
“Yeah, I thought that you’d call about this. I’ve already landed in the States. I’ll be there in two days.”  
John blinked, startled. “Who contacted you? James, you don’t have to do this. What we’re doing. It may not end well, for anyone.”  
“I’m a soldier John. We all go to war willing to die. Two days. Sebastian and I have some mutual contacts, and he put the word out. He used your name. I’ve contacted some of my people on that side. Be ready to move south, with whoever is coming with us.” John looked at the phone clenched in his hand, hope swelling in his reluctant heart, even as the dial tone beeped faintly. So, there were still people who were willing to follow John Watson and James Sholto into battle. Imagine that, John thought wryly. I should talk to Sebastian though. Especially if he’s going to be using my name as the rallying cry in the coming fight. 

As it turns out though, all their barely conceived preparations for a rebellion barely begun had been for nought. When John Watson woke up the next day, it was to an America surrendered, and his name at the top of the list of insurgents to be arrested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not expecting people to care about this. Thank you all for your interest. 
> 
> Updates are going to be a little scattered - I need to focus my time on other things, but I will finish - as soon as I figure out the ending. I'm trying to be half a chapter to a chapter ahead, but as always, things are subject to change.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so my chapter lengths are going to vary pretty dramatically. 
> 
> I hope you like this. 
> 
> As always, unbeta'd, disclaimers, etc. Comments and constructive critiques welcome.

“John! John!”  
John opened his door, rubbing sleep from bleary eyes, only to stumble backwards as Laura slammed into him, followed closely by Sebastian. “Laura? What do you want? Why were you trying to knock my door in?” Sebastian shut the door quickly, and begun to move around the room, closing the curtains. He ushered a bewildered John and an increasingly agitated Laura into the kitchen.  
“Oh god John, haven’t you heard? He surrendered! The president surrendered! And someone leaked our names to Khan’s people! We’re fugitives. It was just announced.” Laura clung to John, her eyes wide, and her body trembling. “John, what are we going to do?”  
John looked helplessly down at her, and then back up at Sebastian, who looked back impassively. “Call Victor, Molly, and James. Mrs Hudson and Wiggins as well. We need to find out who’s been compromised.”  
“What about Greg?” John asked.  
“We don’t know if we can still trust him. He works for Mycroft, and as far as we know, Mycroft works for Khan.”  
“He was talking to Molly.”  
“Then we need to suspect Molly’s people as well.”  
John sighed through his nose. He needed to think. He was still barely awake, and Laura was very close to having hysterics. Sebastian hesitated, then plunged on. “John, there’s something you need to know as well – .“ A knock on the door stopped him from finishing his sentence, and he looked uneasily at the door. “Shit!” Laura bolted up, and looked around wildly, but with the steel returning to her eyes. “We need to run!”  
“Sebastian, you need to take her and move. If they know there’s a possibility that I could be working with you, then they’ll be here to check up on me!”  
“No John you don’t understand! It’s not us they’re here for! You’re -.”  
“Ah, good morning John. Mr Moran, Miss Green, it’s lovely to see you.”  
“ _Mycroft?_ ” John was stunned to see the dapper man standing in his kitchen, wearing a grey suit and carrying his umbrella. John was reminded sharply of the last time he saw Mycroft, standing outside 221B Baker Street with a tearful Mrs Hudson, wearing the muted colours of grief even months after, and saying goodbye to John as a taxi pulled up. He drew back from the memory sharply, as the pain threatened to overwhelm him. Mycroft smiled faintly, “You have a lovely home John. I’m terribly sorry to be bothering you, but I need you to come with me please.”  
“How did you get in here? How did you find me?” John demanded, putting himself between a terrified looking Laura and the man he had not seen in years. Mycroft just looked at him. “I never really lost you John. I’ve been keeping an eye on you. I was hoping you would make it out before I had to do this, but one can never really trust the Americans. They caved much sooner than I hoped.” He looked at John with a glimmer of sorrow in his eyes, before steeling himself. “John Watson, Sebastian Moran, Laura Green, I have with me warrants for the arrests of three fugitives. I regret to inform you that most of your … allies have been apprehended. Molly Hooper, James Sholto, and Mrs Hudson. I have also been instructed to tell you that Harriet Watson has been detained on suspicion of conspiracy.”  
John reeled back. His mind was blank. They had taken almost everyone, on two continents. How could they possibly have known? Except… it didn’t seem like they knew about Wiggins or Victor. Only… “Harriet has nothing to do with any of this!”  
“Unfortunately, we can’t know that until we’ve questioned everybody involved. But as you know, the innocent have nothing to fear,” Mycroft said smoothly. Laura whimpered. ‘Questioning’ under Khan usually meant one of two things: you were innocent, or you were never seen again. John could see the implied threat in Mycroft’s words though. If he resisted, then the proof of Harriet’s ‘innocence’ would become uncertain. He looked quickly at Sebastian, a silent question rising in his eyes. Sebastian nodded back, eyes hard and angry. John swallowed nervously, his throat suddenly dry and his palms slick with sweat even as they clenched at his sides, and nodded jerkily at Mycroft. Behind him, Laura’s sobbing grew more pronounced. Mycroft smiled, but there was still a glimmer of sympathy in his eyes. “Excellent. If you’ll follow me, these gentlemen will not have to use force to restrain you,” he said, waving his umbrella to encompass the heavily armed men behind him.

The walk to the car was silent, as was the ride to the airport. Out of courtesy perhaps, Laura has been allowed to stay with John and Mycroft. Laura had looked like she wanted to protest at Sebastian’s separation from them, but John’s hand on her shoulder and Sebastian’s headshake were enough to keep her silent, though she kept glancing nervously at the black SUV behind them, as though expecting to see or hear gunshots and Sebastian’s body being flung out of the car.

At the private, deserted airstrip, Laura stumbled out of the car and ran to an impassive Sebastian, checking him frantically for wounds while the guards watched them with suspicious eyes. John, after glancing at Sebastian, whose hand was comfortingly laid at Laura’s back, found himself looking at a Mycroft who was having a murmured conversation with his ever-present aide, Anthea. She nodded sharply, and begun to text quickly, her phone vibrating with an onslaught of incoming texts. Mycroft gestured with his umbrella at the small, private plane in the hangar behind them. “If you don’t mind, we can leave as soon as we’ve boarded.” John’s anxiety spiked as he looked at the innocuous plane, the only one in the hangar. He could feel his trepidation increasing. The thought of resisting again crossed his mind for a brief moment before he remembered that they had his sister. Any kind of resistance would have to wait until he had found her, and possibly the others, but he was realistic enough to realise that any kind of escape plan was unlikely to work if Mycroft’s involvement extended beyond their capture into their containment.

He did have to wonder though, about why Mycroft was here to capture them at all, considering his position in the British government, and his distaste for field work. Not for the first time, he wondered what Khan had done to Britain’s government after his rise. People said it was his base of operations, and as far as John’s friends in Europe could tell, it was. They could just never find it. John knew that there had been some _restructuring_ , but the news reports at the time had been light on detail. Most news was like that now, especially after the unification. There was simply no information on Khan. He seemed to operate much like Moriarty had before he ate his own gun – a shadow figure creating and filling power vacuums, working within the light and shadow of the law until people either did what he wanted or died. Sometimes those people were individuals, sometimes they were families, and sometimes they were countries. John continued to muse on this as he sat on the plane, flanked by an armed guard, and facing Mycroft, who had that same sorrowful smile on his face, even as he never met John’s eyes. Behind him sat Sebastian and Laura, each with their own guards. John couldn’t help but find the fact that Sebastian had two guards all to himself slightly amusing. Apparently they expected trouble, and knew just who Sebastian was. Sebastian had rolled his eyes when they flanked him, but said nothing. He preferred to keep his eyes on Laura, worried again that she would do something. But Laura, for all that she was young, inexperienced, and scared, believed in and trusted John and Sebastian, and understood that for now at least, they would put up no resistance. All she could do was wait till they were ready. She knew that she could be of assistance, and had already determined that she could disarm her guard, and would if given any indication that they were going to make a move. But there was something in Mycroft’s face that made her think that there was something larger than a simple arrest of fugitives happening here. She just couldn’t figure it out. She saw in Sebastian’s eyes, and in the quick nod he gave her questioning look, that he understood the same, but had no more answers than she did.

The silence in the jet remained unbroken, even as they landed in DC to refuel, and when food was served. John said nothing, eating mechanically. He was not sure when or if he would be allowed to eat at any point in the near future, and assumed that it would be best to eat while he had the opportunity, _and the ability_ , he thought, unable to squash the dark thought. It would take them several more hours to get to London, and while it did not seem like a long flight, it appeared that it would be a quiet one. Mycroft looked thoughtfully at his silent prisoners as the plane ascended again, and switched on the screens fixed to the front and back of the plane, positioned so that everyone could see, no matter which way their seats faced. A pretty blonde wearing garish pink and sitting at a desk came on screen, her voice filling the silent cabin. “- while there has been resistance to the deal brokered between representatives from the New Union and the American President, the transition of power has been mostly peaceful. The screen cut to shaky footage of protesters clashing with police wearing riot gear, flinging rocks and other projectiles, screaming and running as the police opened fire, spraying the crowds indiscriminately, as the lady’s voice continued. “However, there has been a need to employ rubber bullets and tear gas in some areas to disperse crowds as they turned violent.” The screen cut back to the news room as the lady continued blandly, talking about how the following days would bring more details of the new direction America would be taking. John tuned out the rest of the report, his ears ringing and his knuckles white. There really was no place left. He had been right when he talked to Laura, as much as he wished he hadn’t been. Now that the might of the American military has been added to Khan’s, South America and the hold outs in Africa would fall quickly. He could feel the hysteria rising inside, and he swallowed, fixing his eyes firmly on the window next to him. He was determined not to acknowledge Mycroft, who he could feel looking at him now.

“John.” Mycroft began. “You must know, this was the best option.” John bit down hard on his inner cheek to avoid lashing out. He could understand the need to follow orders, certainly, but to him this felt like a betrayal. Mycroft sighed. “You’ll understand in time.” That was the last word spoken until the plane touched down at the private airstrip in London.

The tense silence was broken when Sebastian spoke, before they split into two cars with Laura this time assigned to the same car as Sebastian, “where are we going?”  
“Miss Green and yourself will be taken to a holding facility. You will be held there until a decision is made over what to do with you. Some of your associates are there already. You can see for yourself that they are unharmed.”  
“What about John?” Laura asked. Mycroft smiled thinly. “John is coming with me to Buckingham Palace. Khan would like to speak to him.”

Ice threaded its way down John’s spine as objections burst out of Laura. Sebastian’s brow furrowed and he looked at John questioningly. He and Laura would fight to defend him, and John desperately wished he could agree. But they had Harriet, and he couldn’t escape without her. He shook his head slightly, and Sebastian nodded, his face tense. Information it would be then. Weaknesses, defences, guard schedules, as much as they could get. When they needed it, they would be ready.

John watched them get into a car and drive off in silence. He wanted to know why Khan wanted to speak with him personally. He couldn’t fathom it. He was part of the resistance certainly, but Sebastian would be able to give them much more useful information. He wondered if it was just a coincidence, that he would simply be interrogated first. He wondered how he would fare under torture, thought about what it would take to break him. _More than they know_ , he thought grimly, as the memories of his time in the military threatened to rise to the surface. _Unless they’ve accessed my sealed files, they won’t know what it would take to break me_. The thought was quickly suppressed by one which said: _they don’t need to hurt you to break you. They could hurt anyone. They could hurt Laura, or Harriet._ John didn’t know what he would do if it came down to that. _Maybe I could get away with feigning innocence_ , he thought, optimistically. But in his heart he knew, if it came down to betraying his friends in order to save his life… well, John Watson had become a doctor to save others, gone to war to save others, he had been willing to die at that poolside to save Sherlock, and he would be willing to die now for his friends, if it came to that. To do anything else would mean that he was no longer John Watson.


	4. Chapter 4

The car ride, John mused, would have been much easier to bear, had Mycroft not kept _looking_ at him which such pity. It made John tense, anxious, and scared. He wanted desperately, in a small part of himself he didn’t want to look at, to escape, to run away and hide. He had learned to hide that fear, and be the soldier, the thrill seeker, but still, some tiny part of him wished for something he could comfort himself with. In Afghanistan, it had been James, it had been his friends. In London it had been Sherlock, and then for a time, Mary, but that hadn’t lasted as long as it could have – should have had she been willing to come to America with him. In America it had been Laura, and an unlikely friendship with Sebastian. Now, he was afraid he would never see his friends again, and it would be their memory, and Sherlock’s, that he took with him into whatever torture Khan would produce for information.

By the time they reached the city, so familiar, and so alien at the same time – with some new buildings, the same nostalgic little alleyways he had chased criminals down with his heart pounding and Sherlock beside him, and more, so many more CCTV cameras – John had entered the calm space that had made him such an excellent solider. His body was loose, but alert, and he could feel the familiar sense of awareness settle between his shoulder blades. His face had hardened slightly, and his eyes were cool and calculating. He was, though he did not know it, the picture of an efficient weapon, and Mycroft, ever observant, couldn’t help the admiration he felt, in knowing that the British had produced such a man – battle hardened steel. He thought, perhaps, that he could almost hope that John would make it out of this meeting intact.

The car pulled to a smooth stop in front of a non-descript three story building near Downey Street. John looked at Mycroft, and took a soft, steadying breath. Leaving the car, and entering through the building’s door – reinforced, John noted - he could feel eyes on him, and he was sure that Khan had already been informed of his arrival. John almost wished he could shower, and change out of the travel stained clothes he had been wearing since, had it only been this morning that he left the States? It felt like much longer. He supposed it didn’t really matter though, thinking as he walked down corridors and up stair cases. Khan would not be interested in the state of his comfort, or his presentation, only in any information he could extract. He saw only a few people as he noted the number of rooms and the sparse décor in muted colours, carrying weapons but not heavily armed. He noted, through the windows, that there was a fire escape. Despite himself, he felt a rising curiosity. He would be meeting a man whose face and voice were unknown, a man who had conquered most of the world, and ran it from behind a shroud of mystery. He wondered if the stories were accurate. What kind of man would Khan be? 

_Well. You’re going to find out,_ he thought to himself as they stopped in front of a set of slightly more ornate doors. John could hear Mycroft drawing a breath behind him, preparing to speak. John didn’t want to hear it. At this point, what could Mycroft say? He reached out, and shoved open the doors. The force of his movement swung them both inward until they hit the walls with a dull thud, revealing a long table, made of dark wood, and a scattering of chairs around it. The room was empty, save for a single figure standing at the large windows which framed an expansive view of the city and the streets below. The room was lit only by a single lamp, and the glow of the city through the windows throwing long shadows over the darkened room. The figure was tall, and lithe, with the posture of a soldier, close cropped dark hair, and long, pale fingers clasped behind his back. Through his black polar neck and trousers, John could see a fairly impressive musculature. _A soldier indeed_ , he thought, as the man turned around. John took in the glittering eyes, impassive mouth, and cheekbones _you could cut yourself on_ he thought in the bastardised memory of Irene Adler’s voice, hysteria rising in his throat, choking him as he stood, frozen, with a ringing in his ears, and struggling to breathe, drinking in the sight of a man he thought he would never see again. “ _Sherlock?_ ”

“Hello John.”


	5. Chapter 5

John couldn’t move. His breathing became more rapid as he struggled to process that Sherlock was alive and standing in front of him. He could feel the ground beneath him shift, and realised his legs were turning to rubber. “Sherlock,” he breathed, not sure if his words were a prayer or a curse. He could feel the shock turning quickly to rage and betrayal. He had never wanted to hit something so much, and he could feel angry recriminations choking him in their rush to be the first out of his mouth. Throughout this, Sherlock didn’t move, just continued to look at John with cool eyes. _He’s waiting for you to do something John, or say something. So what do you want to do? What do you want to say?_ John’s thoughts were a tangled mess of ‘he’s _alive’_ and ‘he’s **alive** – why didn’t he tell me’ and ‘ _how_ could he not tell me – he was my best friend.’ On that last thought, something inside John broke. “Fuck you,” he spat at Sherlock, before turning sharply, military posture the only thing keeping his legs from giving away under him, and walked out. He didn’t look at Mycroft, who hadn’t said a word, or moved from his position from the door. John could feel two sets of eyes on him as he walked out, and their weight was an anchor. He walked blindly down a corridor, and found an empty bedroom. He shut the door and sagged against it, unable to support himself anymore. He slid down the carved wood to the thickly carpeted floor and let wave after wave of emotion pound through him.

 

“Well,” Mycroft said icily, looking at Khan. “That went as well as I expected it to.” Khan looked at him indifferently, and spoke, giving no indication that seeing his best friend, and having it be such a volatile and brief meeting, for the first time in years had affected him at all. “It doesn’t matter. You understand what happens if John doesn’t agree.” The experiments that had turned Sherlock into a war god had also given him a slight rasp to his voice, giving him a permanent undercurrent of a growl. Mycroft couldn’t help but think back to his memories of a young Sherlock, who had always wanted to be a pirate, or a dragon slayer, a romantic figure, fighting monsters and rescuing damsels. He had always thought privately that that was what Sherlock has become as a consulting detective – a dragon slayer. The man who stood before him now, wearing his brother’s face, _threatening him_ , was now more dragon than slayer. Khan turned to face the window again, clearly dismissing his brother. Mycroft couldn’t help chafing at the new power dynamic that had been introduced when Sherlock had survived. He was not used to being subordinate, especially not to his baby brother. His clipped, rapid pace down the corridor, and the knuckles tensed around the handle of his umbrella were the only indications of his agitation, though for Mycroft, this may as well have been screaming. He had to speak to John, he knew that, but he had no idea where the man was. It was unlikely that he had left the house though. John had been shocked, and furious, betrayed, and heartbroken in ways he had not yet come to understand, but he was a soldier who knew his duty. So long as they held his friends and his sister, Mycroft was confident John would not attempt to escape. Pulling his Blackberry out, he smiled at the message the incredibly efficient Anthea had sent him. _Second floor, fourth bedroom. Door locked._ A left turn and a staircase later, Mycroft looked at a resolutely shut door. Steeling himself for John’s righteous fury, he knocked briskly and called out. “John, open the door please. We need to talk.” Silence. Mycroft sighed. He should have expected this. “John.” He called more resolutely. “We need to talk.” The silence itself seemed to radiate nothingness. Mycroft felt a tendril of concern unfurl. If John had tried to escape, Khan would execute Harriet to bring him back. Sherlock may have hesitated, unwilling to follow through with the final act, but Khan did not have Sherlock’s mercy, or his care for John’s emotional wellbeing. As far as Khan was concerned, if John ran, that would be a violation of the terms of John’s surrender, which meant that his retaliation would be swift, and unmerciful. And once Harriet was dead, Khan would personally hunt John down. He tried again, this time with a voice laced with the faintest panic. “John! Open the door before I have someone break it – oh. Good.” The door was ripped open by a furious John, framed by the darkness of the room. His chest was heaving and his colour was high. “How long Mycroft. How long have you known.” He bit the words out, desperate to regain control of himself, fighting the urge to rage, and scream, and break things. Mycroft sighed, relieved that John had not run. He couldn’t help but feel that Khan was handling this rather poorly. John had always been a weak spot for Sherlock, and it seemed that that weakness was blinding Khan. “John, let me come inside and we can talk.”

John stood in the doorway, mouth grim as he contemplated his options, before abruptly moving back into the room. “Talk.”

Mycroft walked into the darkened room, and found a chair sitting by the window. If John wanted to have this conversation in the dark, Mycroft would oblige him. Settling himself in, and placing his umbrella carefully within reach, he considered his options. “This would be easier if you sat down,” he said to the angry man pacing the length of the room. “Talk,” was the abrupt response, spoken in the tone of a dangerous man reaching the end of his tether. Mycroft gathered his thoughts, wondering where to begin. It seemed both the simplest and most complicated option would really be the only one John would accept – the truth, as much as Mycroft was able to. _The beginning then_.

“Sherlock didn’t know how to stop Moriarty. He went up onto that roof expecting to lose. However, he had made arrangements with me, based on the slightest possibility that he would survive the fall, to enter into a programme we had been developing since the Second World War. Human enhancements. Science fiction really, but for Sherlock, it was the only way he would have been able to survive. He didn’t tell you because it was an incredibly slim chance that it would work – that it did, and as well as it did is extraordinary. No one could have foreseen it. It was a miracle. But Sherlock had always been extraordinary. Even when we were children.” He smiled vaguely, “don’t tell him that of course. I was the smart one after all.”

“Was?” The word was bitten off, the only sign that John had been listening at all. He gave no other reaction. _Ever the soldier. Gather intelligence, assess, and then react_. Even now, Mycroft was impressed. “The programme… the experiments Sherlock signed up for, were done in part for you. So that he could come back to Baker Street, and his blogger.” Mycroft added this last part in the hopes of softening John. Silence was the only response he received. “Right then. Sherlock was augmented. Faster, stronger, a better human. He was brought to the peak of human evolution. The program had been started by men and women who had seen the depths of depravity humans could sink to, and wanted to make men and women who would be able to lead others to peace in a world of war, leaders who could meet the savagery of our enemies with savagery of their own. There have been no known successes until Sherlock. In many ways, he was the perfect candidate. The brilliant child of a brilliant family, whose mind already outstripped others. So in some ways it’s no surprise really that he survived, and excelled. The problem is that he would not be controlled. We hoped he would fix some of the more difficult problems facing us – terrorism, etc. Unfortunately, his solution was… unconventional. The eradication of our national borders, the unification of continents, and a brutality in weapons design and development that we have not been able to match or counter. And in some ways I suppose, while the powerful object to their power being taken away, those without power see him as more than a conqueror, they see him as a liberator. He’s… fixed many things. At a terrible cost yes, but they are better than they were. Or they will be as more of his plans are put into practice.” “So he’s a hero, and the resistance were fools.” “No, he’s a savage dictator who was given the problem of a broken world and whose solutions for it lacked basic humanity. Peace is at hand yes, global peace, but there is a future with no freedom. And… a new problem.” John laughed darkly. “You made Sherlock into a god and a monster, and didn’t expect there to be problems.” Mycroft smiled tightly. “Sherlock is dead. He had to die on the table for the enhancements to work. Khan is the embodied potential of the human race, bought with the price of his humanity. This next part is _very_ classified John. Khan is bored.” John blinked. He had not been expecting that. Mycroft continued, “Khan is bored, and he wants to leave.”

“Leave where? America?”

“Earth.”

What?”

“One of the problems we had him solve was that of long distance space flight and planet colonisation. He’s developed entirely new fields of science and technology that have made it possible to terraform planets, and get people to them. You may not have noticed, we’ve kept the information fairly quiet, but there have been remarkable developments in fields related to science and technology, and with a world looking at peace, well. There are now options we can explore. We wanted an option for overpopulation. What the general population knows is that we were looking at colonising Mars, but what actually happened was Khan gave us was the possibility – the real possibility of space travel. He wants to leave earth, and test his new theory, find and inhabit new planets, and –“

“Space. Sherlock wants to invade space.” John interrupted, growing tired of the sci-fi story line he was being fed.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Then what’s the problem? You say he’s saved earth, but it feels like you’re saying you didn’t sign up for a global empire, and now you want him gone. He wants to go. Why is there an issue? Why have all my friends been taken into custody? Why has _Harriet_ been taken into custody?”

“Well, they were planning an uprising,” Mycroft began before John interrupted him, again. “There was nothing to rise up against. The day you arrested us was the day a transition of power took place. There was nothing illegal –“

“You are being held as conspirators, not as rebels. Do not argue legalities with me John. You will lose.” Mycroft seemed, for the first time, slightly annoyed. “I am not your enemy.”

“You work for Sherlock. Apparently, Sherlock and I are enemies now.” John laughed, bitterly, his heart breaking in his chest at his friend’s betrayal, even as his mind struggled to take in everything Mycroft had been telling him. He looked at Mycroft with tired eyes, sinking into the other chair. He suddenly felt very tired, and very numb. “What does he want Mycroft? Why did he bring me in? We weren’t a threat to him. Especially not if he’s leaving,” he asked, softly. Mycroft looked at him, the light from the streetlamps illuminating a sad expression John had never seen before. He thought Mycroft looked suddenly much older, and weary to the bone. _I know the feeling_ , he thought wryly. “Khan isn’t willing to just leave. He’s put together a crew of people, who have undergone the same procedure as him. The ship is almost complete.” John’s brows knitted together as a terrible foreboding came over him. “Who’s in this crew Mycroft?”

“Molly. Victor. Miss Adler. Wiggins didn’t make it.” He paused. “Some of the people Khan has been working with since his … rebirth. A Montgomery Scott, Leonard McCoy, and a James Kirk, among others. He calls them his generals. He always was one for drama.” Mycroft smiled a little at that. While the latter names meant nothing to John he couldn’t help but think, well, it appears it was not a case of who was compromised, but rather who wasn’t. He couldn’t help the bitterness in that thought, or the grief he felt washing over him at Wiggins. He looked at Mycroft, and noted the careful expression on the man’s face. “There’s something you’re not telling me. Who else, Mycroft.”

A long pause, heavy with reluctance. Eventually, as John was about to ask again, an answer. “Moriarty.” Mycroft pronounced the name with a twisted grimace, as John leapt angrily to his feet. “ _Moriarty_? Moriarty is alive? Moriarty who beat Sherlock and blew his brains out on that rooftop is _alive_? You made _that_ Moriarty into whatever you turned Sherlock into? Are you _insane_?”

“Moriarty and Khan have a common goal, and an understanding between them. Moriarty has been of enormous help to Khan in the last years,” Mycroft stated calmly, but with a hint of distaste on his face. “I do not ask questions.”

“No,” John said, disgustedly. “You don’t. But that doesn’t answer my first question. What does he want? Why did you bring us here?”

“I want you, John.” John spun around at the simple statement, his eyes settling on Sherlock, who was leaning casually against the doorframe, cast in shadows. “When I leave earth, you’re going to be on my ship, or I’m going to reduce this planet to ash.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I'm sorry for the delay in posting this. This is actually one of my reserve chapters, but honestly, I think I need to do this so I can get back to it. My life over the last couple months has been intense, to say the least. I had to move back to the city my university is in for a month because my supervisors hated my thesis. I submitted though, by the skin of my teeth. I'm going to have an MA in a couple months, even though it's below the standard I'm capable of. But I'm taking a break from school for a while to sort out my head. I'm also leaving to China to fo the teaching thing for a while. Then, who knows. So updates are probably going to be pretty infrequent - massive emotional upheaval is surprisingly not as productive as it should be. Artists have lied to me. But thank you all for sticking with me. This chapter is a promise that I have not abandoned this work, even if I never know where it's going, and an apology for not updating in so long. I hope you enjoy. Comments and critiques welcome.


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